


The High Lord's personal Court of Nightmares

by StayStrongNWM



Series: A Court of Pain and Misery [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: A Court of Pain and Misery, ACOTAR - Freeform, ACOWAR, Angst, F/M, Feyre is at the Spring Court, Hi here have some pain, High Lord of the Night Court, Mor don't know how to be subtle, Mor means well, Pain, Poetic pain, Rhysand - Freeform, Rhysand is sad, The Night Court, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This series broke me, acomaf, feyre - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:14:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StayStrongNWM/pseuds/StayStrongNWM
Summary: Rhysand never knew the absence of his mate could weigh so heavy on his shoulders.Set between the end of ACOMAF, the very beginning of ACOWAR.





	The High Lord's personal Court of Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxxxwitlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxxwitlee/gifts).



> This was a love letter to @xxxxWitlee
> 
> I promise I never (really) meant to hurt y'all but hey, here we are. I'm so sorry. All I know is how to write pain & angst.

"You mean to tell me, that my High Lady - Is now surrounded by enemies?!"

It wasn't the rage that hit him, nor the protectiveness of his friends towards his mate. It wasn't that. It was the silent accusation in her voice that stole the breath from his lungs. She didn't mean to, he was sure, but it hung in the air, shifted brutally over the silence between the Inner Circle.

"Get her back"

He couldn't remember the last time he'd flinched. Not upon words, not upon actions. When she'd said it, he hadn't moved a muscle, but now; sitting on the floor he didn't know if she'd literally slapped him across the face or not. It hurt all the same.

It was the denial that came first. The betrayal of his very own senses. He'd wake up in the morning with a whisper of her name falling over his lips, and his cursed hands would scramble to find her body in the stone cold sheets beside him. Her laugh would ring in his head days on end, and every time his mind played the trick of whispering her words in his ears, he'd turn around so quickly, so carelessly, his back and neck ached with pulled muscles and strained nerves.

The grief came after a couple weeks. He couldn't stop the tears, even if he'd never, hardly ever let himself cry before. Not about what happened to his people, not about what happened with him Under the Mountain, not about what Amarantha had done to him. Now he found himself exhausted with the act he kept up during the days, relieved to find the time acceptable to excuse himself to his chambers, where his back would slump against his bedroom door with a heavy, such a heavy sigh once it closed him off the outside world. He'd cry then. He'd slide down the door incapable of holding the weight of her absence, and he'd fall to his knees so hard that after three nights of crying, the blue bruises seemed permanent below the ink of his tattoos. His hands would find his face not simply in a desperate way to cut off his sight of the empty bed before him, but to claw at his skin and press his palms so roughly into his eyes stars danced behind his eyelids. There would hardly be a sound before he'd remember to breathe. It was an ugly kind of crying that he did. It was sob after sob racking through his body, and arms struggling to keep himself together, because Cauldron knew that if he didn't fight for that; he'd fall right apart on the floor.

Then came the final blow.

"It's like you don't even mind"

He broke then. He saw the regret shift in her eyes the moment the words left her mouth, but they hovered still, like an army attacking his very being. He'd fought too long.

He didn't know how it had happened. All he knew was the exhaustion. The void of everything but how terribly tired he was. He'd felt the tremble first, through his hands, up his arms, down his legs. They gave out on him, even before he'd had the futile thought that he wasn't supposed to fall apart right here. Not in front of his brothers. Only in his bedroom, late at night, when nobody would either hear or see him, and the ugliness of his pain. His knees cracked awfully once they collided with the stone, and it wasn't long before his cousin's face was blurred with tears, and he couldn't see anything anymore.

'Rhysand'

An angel, he'd thought first. An angel with the voice of his mate. What a cruel game The Mother plays. A soft, small hand on his face. So warm, he thought, leaning into it.

'Rhysand'

His eyes opened then, squinting at the light. It took a while to focus, but then he saw her. His mate. His wife. His High Lady. Feyre. He cried again then, but only realised it once her hand softly wiped away the tears from his face. She kissed him.

It was as if every fiber of his body was lit aflame, slowly set on fire. Healing. All his pain, and anguish washed away by a gentle brush of her lips against his, and he couldn't find his voice. He couldn't tell her; more, more, more. I am so broken. His own voice failed him. Please, don't leave me. Stay. Stay. Stay.

He opened his eyes the moment he realised he'd closed them. A jolt through is spine, and his body screamed in protest, in pain. His fingers found his lips then, where her kiss had been. He was burned out - but the sheets beside him, cold.

A dream then, he thought. His mate still gone.


End file.
